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Dreams 08
Matheson You know how to fix them all. The broken, the sick and the wounded. You see the drafting lines that represent their construction- blood vessels and nerves, muscle lines and bone, every organ and the symbols that represent function, all outlined in sparking blue and red and purple. And their malfunctions. While Greene is lost in his dour diagnoses, you can see perfectly the analogues of circuits, resistors, moment armatures, key junctions, and power supplies, and know just what piece of a radio, or telegraph, or aircraft structural element will substitute for a broken joint, or withered muscle, or failing liver. You take over as medical assistant, cannibalizing equipment to save the failing systems of the expedition. At the end of a few days, with everyone up and walking again, clanking, creaking, and occasionally leaking hydraulic fluids or acid, you rest with the satisfaction of a well completed task. Lynch So much is becoming clear to you now. How the shapes of the surface appearance of the world describe what lies beneath. The influences, hidden to the eyes of most men, are slowly revealing themselves to you in the lines of constellations, the whisper of the wind across vast, open spaces, the tortured groans of the simple act of all life striving to grow, survive, conquer. You walk down the mountain, feeling the power of the earth course through your legs. The armies of the enemy are arrayed before you, shouting, beating their spears into the earth, and stringing their bows. You kneel to the ground, withdrawing the small bound monkey from your pack. It screeches and bites, but you easily evade the grasping teeth, shouting to the defiant horde below you: "Vernek Zhathog, breemn shanthegr zervahring" as you hold the struggling wretch above your head, and fold it in half with a wrenching cracking sound and a tortured scream from the poor creature as you throw it far down to the milling warriors below. With a deep bellow, you launch down the slope, firing and killing. Even when your bullets are gone, you fight on with rifle butt and bare fists and a stolen stone blade. Every arrow misses, every spear falters, every club shatters on your skin, and you are soon covered in the blood and gore of a hundred slain men, and you shout your delight and victory to the sky, waking yourself with a start in the open village square. Russel You wake up at home, so warm and comfortable, you don't want to respond to the voice that roused you. Your mother, you think? The sound has faded, but you stumble out into the room, dressing quickly, and enter the hallway, redolent with the smell of bacon and the sound of frying coming from the kitchen downstairs. When you descend, there is breakfast on the table, and a cup of coffee, but only echoes when you call for her. Finished eating, you follow the scent of her delicate floral perfume through the front door and into a cave lit by luminous lichen growing in strange patterns on the wall. They seem to guide you by their brightness out into the open; a chill, windswept plain, sere and stark, with almost recognisable words forming on the wind before being swept aside. Following the flutter of her brightly patterned dress, barely glimpsed, you stumble, and slide down a long concavity of snow into a mass of sand and weather worn rock formations. You see the impressions of footprints before you, and follow them through a winding declivity between high striated sandstone formations. You stop at a dead end, finding a scrap of fabric and a ring you remember from childhood, as the wind whips up and obscures the sharp blue sky into blackness... ZianQi The rice fields have come in well this season. Your many sons and daughters have worked hard to bring in the harvest, and now the fields are draining. The entire village labors to ensure that everything is stored, and the fish exposed and flopping in the muck are preserved. There is much more food than everyone could eat in a year, and much will spoil, unless it can traded, or saved somehow. You present an idea to the council, and as elder, though it goes against tradition, they submit to your will. The fish which can not be eaten, or smoked, or stored, will be wrapped in rice and buried the mud, well marked. Every month, a certain amount will be recovered, and tasted, and hopefully, eaten. The project is unprecedented and risky, but you are confident that it will guarantee the prosperity of the village for years to come, and fall calmly and happily to sleep. Category:Dreams Log